Compulsion
by witchfire24
Summary: Moriarity returns from the grave with his magical ability to compel people to do what he wants renewed. And what he wants is to punish Sherlock, John, and Molly in all the naughtiest ways. Luckily. Warning: non/dub con, some slash in later chapters. Sherlock/John/Molly/Moriarity
1. Sherlock Being Sherlock

**Set sometime after Sherlock returns from the dead. Much as I love Mary, she's not in the picture.**

**Comments welcomed! I'd love it someone posted a prompt. I'm currently only in middle of chapter two.  
**

* * *

The day had started out ordinarily enough. Mind-numbingly ordinary, actually, and the rest of the day continued the same way with no interesting corpses being wheeled in. Molly had a few tissue analyses to do, but those were about as exciting solving algebra equations while listening to an audiobook of _War and Peace_.

Her lab assistant had been out all week, so she didn't even have his limited conversational skills to keep her semi-entertained. At this point she was willing to even listen to his season-by-season analysis of the original Dr. Who—perhaps even his opinion on the whether or not Batman could beat Superman in a fight, though she wasn't quite desperate enough to hear him recite Elvish poetry.

It didn't help that being left alone to her own thoughts was never a good thing. There was the stress of her mother's health, for one thing, and her noisy new upstairs neighbors, and the way that plumber who had been clanking about in her bathroom for three hours yesterday had only succeeded in tracking mud all over her carpet and making the leak worse.

_A bath would be__ nice_ hot_,_ she thought. _A nice, soothing strawberry__ bubble bath__._

_No, what __would be "nice" would be an opportunity to use ___the bone saw. __

She loved the whir it made, the way it was almost like a weapon, making her feel stronger and confident even if she were only chopping up a defenseless corpse.

She also liked the vibrations it sent up her arm, the way it tickled her skin. And that one time when she had to cut through that man's femur, the body's strongest bone, stronger that concrete… The way the vibrations had buzzed through her hips as she leaned against the metal table…how those insidious vibrations had reached deep inside her core and she had cum suddenly and violently with her lab coat spattered in blood and her hand clamping down on the cold table edge.

It had been an accident, but she had felt guilty anyway. Molly had never touched herself, not even when she was a teenager, and to come without somebody else's fingers on her felt wrong, felt—dirty.

She hadn't had sex since she broke up with Tom, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd had _good_ sex, if she ever had. If only she had an excuse to use her bone saw perhaps if she held the handle against the table accidently-on-purpose, the way she switched to the handheld showerhead when washing her nethers, just so that she'd feel the trickle of water down there without _meaning_ too.

_No, you'd feel guilty about that, too._

Maybe if she sat up on her chair with her knee bent and her heel grinding against her groin—just to raise herself up to get a better angle on the microscope, that is…

_No. You're too smart for this, Molly. Are you a teenager or a doctor? There are other things in life besides sex! Music…art…literature…_

She had to laugh to herself at that one. _I think right now I'd swap the entire contents of the Louvre for a good handjob._ She wasn't sure that term was used for women, but that she knew she wanted one. Or even just a kiss. _Something!  
_

—And then, just as she was filing her last tissue analysis and getting ready to leave for the day, Sherlock barged in with John scrambling behind him like an emotionally guarded puppy.

"Male, fifty-two, pulled out of the Thames and brought in yesterday," Sherlock said briskly, striding past her towards the morgue without waiting for a response. He pulled open the freezer drawer in one fluid motion.

_Only Sherlock Holmes could possibly make the reveal of a bloated, middle-aged, partially-rotted corpse seem elegant,_ she thought, _as if he were removing a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket._

Sherlock whipped out his magnifying glass and started to analyze the body.

"He committed suicide, I heard," said Molly conversationally.

"You are merely parroting what the police told you, and given their astonishing ineptitude, even you should have realized that would inevitably be incorrect. Perhaps you should turn whatever limited powers of observation you have to selecting a better outfit for your date tonight."

"Sherlock…" said John warningly.

"I do determine causes of death for a living, you know," Molly said, but she spoke softly.

"A date, Molly?" said John when Sherlock ignored her and continued to examine the body. "Is it someone we know?"

"He works here at the hospital. I met him in the cafeteria."

"Not someone from IT, I hope," Sherlock interjected. His deep voice was as dry as usual, and John wanted to punch him. Poor Molly! She always seemed to receive the brunt of Sherlock's more sociopathic tendencies.

"He's—he's a nurse. Sherlock, how did you know I had a date tonight?"

Sherlock tucked away his magnifying glass and pulled on a pair of plastic gloves. "You are wearing eyeliner—rather unevenly applied, I might add—and what one sees advertised as a day-to-evening dress instead of your usual frumpy trousers. Best of luck, I say. You are certain to need it, particularly if you do not wipe the lipstick stains off your front teeth."

"That's it!" John said. He had developed a platonic kind of affection for the soft-spoken doctor, even if he couldn't understand her infatuation with his madman of a flatmate. True, Sherlock had a certain _something_, but that certain something usually made people wish to beat him over the head with a blunt instrument. "Molly, it's five o'clock. I'll walk you to the elevator."

Molly had already collected her things and was wiping the lipstick off her teeth (how on earth did that always happen? No wonder she rarely wore it!) when her phone beeped.

_Cant make it 2nite will b in tuch sorry mayb we __cn_ hav _coffee_ smtime or smthng_ _

He hadn't even bothered coming up with a fake excuse. Molly couldn't decide whether that was a sign of respect or a reason to go home and cry into her cat's fur.

"Boyfriend cancelling on you?" Sherlock said with what seemed to John like an extremely ill-time flicker of amusement. He dropped his gloves in the trash and flipped up his coat's collar. "I suppose you'll spend the rest of your night at the pub, then, as usual."

Molly didn't even ask him how he knew about the text, or respond to what would have in the olden days been called a "monstrous slur," just pressed her purse to her chest and left.

"I could go for a drink," said John, giving Sherlock a disapproving look and following Molly out.

"Aren't you going to invite me?" Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. "Aren't you trying to socialize me by way of example, John?"

"I've given up on that, Spock. And you have your suicide to solve."

"You have your suicide to solve."

"Boring. Clearly murder. I miss Moriarity."

"Just let him come," Molly whispered. She'd had drinks with John a few times before after Sherlock had been particularly cruel to her, but she'd never been out with Sherlock. Perhaps if he were drunk he would be nicer…perhaps even—_malleable_…

_Those long white fingers__…_

* * *

**This will definitely be completed, but probably very gradually due to my schedule...subscribe for updates!**


	2. Down Under on the Underground

**_Dr. Hooper adds a spicy twist to her fellow commuters' day._**

**I encourage all you old-timers to reread Chapter 1 (it's short!), because I made some additions regarding the Moriarity plot-line. ** **Needless to say, forgive any Americanisms. I tried to avoid the obvious ones, like not calling a train car a train car (something I only learned was issue by watching the show), but I'd appreciate any native Brit to point them out so I can correct them (or typos!). Some things, like punctuation, I kept American because I feel weird changing things so dramatically when I and most of my very modest little audience are American.**

* * *

Jim Moriarity removed a sheet of paper from the leather box on the hotel room desk and picked up his pen.

It was a thick sheet of crème stationary, very expensive, and the pen was a fountain pen that wouldn't have been out of place on an Edwardian statesmen's desk.

He didn't actually need the fancy stationary, or old-fashioned pen, but it appealed to his sense of the dramatic. There were certain occasions where a Bic pen and a torn-out notebook sheet just didn't cut it.

He would work his way up to Sherlock, he had decided, starting with his pets and finishing with the consulting detective himself.

Molly first, then. She had to pay for her part in Sherlock's having dismantled his criminal operation and leaving him to rebuild things from scratch.

_Dr. Molly Hooper will have the uncontrollable urge to masturbate to completion in inopportune places, _he wrote in as elegant a hand as he could_, as many times as necessary until she is completely, thoroughly, and irrevocably disgusted with herself. My voice inside her head will prompt her as necessary. _

"She might even enjoy it," he said aloud. He had long-since developed the habit of talking to himself, and the idea amused him. He would not have blinked at the thought of killing her, but he rather liked the meek, mousy doctor. "Upon second thought, she will most definitely enjoy it. I must have someone record the first performance for me."

Moriarity placed the paper down on the pentagram of chalk he had drawn on the desk, lit the circle of candles, and sprinkled the herbs over the paper.

Because it wasn't just his admittedly grand intellect that had vaulted Moriarity to the upper echelons of the criminal world.

Every three years his Irish blood boiled over with dormant ancestral magic and he was able to perform certain feats he had learned from his mother. It was thus that he was actually able to steal the Queen's jewels, rob the bank, set up his return from the dead, and countless other tricks that had turned him into the towering criminal figure that had haunted Mr. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective extraordinaire.

There were times when he felt like it was cheating, that he had not in fact outsmarted Sherlock, but then he would realize that Sherlock's failure to consider all options when slicing away the "impossible" and reluctance to incorporate the supernatural into his view of the "no matter how improbable" truth was Sherlock's shortcoming and his victory.

Moriarity took the vial of Molly's blood that he had acquired soon after learning of her connection to Sherlock, filled an eyedropper, squeezed a drop of blood onto the paper, and set the entire thing on fire.

* * *

There was a perfectly good pub on the hospital's corner—two pubs, to be precise; this was England, after all—but Sherlock had commandeered the entire outing and was directing them to "his" pub, the one near Baker Street, a few stops past Molly's own stop. This meant catching the underground, which during rush hour was no simple task. The first train was too crowded to get on, but the second came quickly, and Molly was able to get a seat near the door.

Sherlock and John stood nearby, holding the pole. John nudged Sherlock and tilted his head at Molly.

"Tell us about this nurse, Molly," said Sherlock almost briskly. "A bit of a step down, isn't it? You are a doctor, after all, and you still have a few years left before your looks fade entirely."

"I meant for you to apologize!" John snapped.

"It's all right," said Molly, holding her purse in her lap and looking down at her feet. The floor of the train was covered in a day's worth of spilled coffee and sticky gum and abandoned newspapers emblazoned with _"I Couldn't Take it Anymore": Mother of Three Drowns Children In Neighbor's Pool -EXCLUSIVE! _and equally dreadful _Reality Star Admits to Plastic Surgery!_ kind of headlines, and she looked up.

The passengers weren't any more cheerful than the floor. Like a wait in the dentists off, the trip to work was always made in a flash, the trip home seemed to take hours. Businessmen in stiff dark suits leaned against the doors, and women in heels struggled to keep their balance as the train started and stopped.

The man next to Molly was sitting too close to her, his legs spread out in a V. Molly wanted to poke him, or say something, but drank in his spiked green Mohawk, piercings, and tattoos, and decided to just quietly sit there. As she always did, no matter who crowded her.

_Not just on the train._

She wrinkled her nose at the thought. There was nothing wrong with being well-mannered! Nothing at all. And if she got stepped on sometimes—

_Like tonight._

—at least she had her cat.

She almost laughed at that one, but there was now grayish train-gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe and her hip hurt from sitting squished and Sherlock was completely ignoring her and none of it seemed very funny, not really.

Plus the air conditioning was on uncomfortably high, and she could feel her nipples hardening under her thin bra at the cold air. Molly adjusted herself in her seat, trying to sit more comfortably in the limited space between Mohawk Guy and the metal bars on the end of the seat, and the rim of a folder she had in her purse brushed her chest.

She had worn her only silk bra-and-panty set to make herself feel sexier and more confident on her date, the first in months, but now she half-regretted how thin the material was. She shifted awkwardly, and the hard edge of the folder pushed against her breasts again, rubbing her hard nipples and starting a dull throbbing ache in her crotch.

The zipper of Sherlock's trousers was barely a foot from her face. She had the sudden mad idea to lean forward and take hold of that zipper with her teeth—

_Why don't you?_ came a sudden voice in her head.

It took Molly a moment to realize that it wasn't her mental voice, or the voice of her conscience, or the judgmental voice of her mother that Molly sometimes thought in when she disapproved of what she was doing.

She sat straight up, brushing her nipples again, and looked around.

Nothing. Nobody with an antennae attached to their head, nobody in silvery-blue wizard's robes or holding any kind of science-fiction contraption pointed in her direction.

The businessmen were still standing there holding their briefcases in front of them and trying to look important. The businesswomen were still silently cursing the unfair social conventions that looked vaguely askance at flats. Most people were playing mindless games on their phones, doubtlessly involving colorful shapes that made chirpy noises. The few passengers whose entertainment requirements exceeded those of a second grader were reading honest-to-goodness books.

John was on his phone too, but he seemed to be emailing someone. Sherlock was uncharacteristically quite, his smooth white forehead creased as if he were deep in thought.

_You want to do it, don't you?_

She didn't respond, because that was crazy, but she didn't have to.

_Of course you do, _the voice went on. _But I'll take pity on you, for old time's sake_. _Instead you're going to touch yourself until you come, and before you get to the next stop. You have at least seven minutes. _

And slowly, inexorably, Molly found herself rocking back and forth, her sharp nipples rubbing the folder, intensifying the throbbing in her groin until the ache of blood filling the lips of her labia was almost painful.

John was the first to notice something was wrong. "Uh, Molly—"

She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. "I—I don't—"

"Are you all right?"

She opened her eyes. The man across from her was looking at her too now. He was very good-looking, in a sharp cold clichéd Wall Street kind of way, complete with a striped blue dress shirt with white cuffs and collar, yellow suspenders, and sleek hair parted down the side. He looked exactly like the kind of antiseptic model you would see in a high-end shaving advertisement. He raised his over-groomed eyebrows in surprise as she unbuttoned the front of her dress and reached her hand inside.

"Molly, we are in public," said Sherlock in as close to shock as he could ever get. "Stop that at once!"

But Molly couldn't stop. The same urge that had compelled her to rub herself on her folder was now creating a need so strong that she didn't think twice about fondling her own breasts through the silky material of her bra.

It felt like she had two pebbles in there, her nipples were so hard, and she ran the ridge of her fingernails over them, feeling the engorged little pink pebbles push back against her fingers as she pinched and rubbed and stroked them. After a moment she scooped her breasts out so she could get at them better, the cold air playing delightfully over her bare skin.

"Molly—" John said, coughing nervously.

But Molly barely heard him over the blood rushing through her ears. Her right hand slipped down over her thigh, sliding down to the hem of her dress while her left kept touching her nipples, sending little jolts thrilling through her body.

Shaving Ad Guy was now filming her with his flashy cell phone, but it had been far too long since she'd been touched for her to stop now, camera and Mohawk Man and the other fifty passengers be damned. She could leap in front of an oncoming train as soon as she finished, but at least she'd die satisfied.

The tip of her finger reached her inner thigh, and she gently ran it around the rim of silk panties. It tickled in a good way, and she slid her nail over the slight bulge of her labia and over to the other side, tracing the edges of her panties, shivering a bit with pleasure at the unaccustomed stimulation.

John had averted his eyes out of respect, and Sherlock out of embarrassment, but others beside Shaving Ad Guy were noticing what was happening now. She felt at least a dozen pairs of eyes on her as she ran her finger up and down the damp crotch of her panties, whimpering slightly to herself.

She hesitated for just a moment, torn between the animal lust struggling to tear through her like a hurricane and everything else she knew to be correct and proper, and then the hurricane tore down the fence of her inhibitions and she plunged her fingers down under the band of her panties and found her clit.

Molly moaned aloud at the feel of her fingers on her clit, and after savoring that for a moment she slipped her hand down further, rubbing her fingers between the lips of her labia, wetting them with her thick slippery fluids. Her lubricated fingers moved up again to her clit, tracing the sensitive skin around it, touching it gently, then back down to her labia and up again.

She didn't take her fingers off her clit again. She couldn't. Touching it was like pushing on a button, a powerful little button that fully ignited the burning need that had been building inside of her for over six months, and touching her clit and breasts had become as necessary as breathing.

The thought that Sherlock was watching—even the thought of the other people, and Shaving Ad Guy's camera—made her heart beat even faster. She had never had anything other than straightforward vanilla sex, she be wad definitely starting to understand why other people went in for things a bit kinkier. Her humiliation was only adding to the throbbing in her groin, fueling her desire for something more—

She took her hand off her breasts for a moment to rummage about in her purse. There, her water bottle, the little eight-ounce ones. She had filled it up before she left the hospital, and it was still cool to the touch.

Molly reluctantly removed her hand from her panties so she could fish her chapstick out of the pocket. She worked it so that the entire stick of lip balm rose up, then broke it off and warmed it between her hands and rubbed the softened lip balm over the rounded end of the water bottle.

She slipped her panties down so that they were stretched over her thighs and plunged the water bottle inside herself. It was a tight fit, but she was burning with the need for _something_ inside her, and after she moved it and out and after a few times it slipped in all the way, filling her with a delicious coolness. Molly sucked it in deeper, clenching her inner walls, enjoying the curious feeling for a moment before turning her attention back to the other parts of her that were crying out for attention.

She rubbed her chapstick-covered fingers over her nipples for a moment, returning them to full hardness, then reached for the water bottle and returned her other hand to her clit with a sigh.

John cleared his throat again, as if by doing that she would snap out of it and he would completely disappear, but she ignored him and thrust the water bottle in and out again, faster and faster, as she stroked herself, and rocked back and forth to rub her nipples on her folder. She noticed at least a half-dozen pairs of bulging pants in her audience—not Sherlock's, though John was shifting uncomfortably—and the thought of all those erections around her, _because_ of her, made her feel delightfully filthy.

And that businesswoman in the doorway—she was squirming slightly, holding her leather briefcase so that the edge rubbed discreetly at her crotch. The woman pressed her hips back against the door, then pushed forward again against the briefcase, biting her lip in concentration.

Molly rose onto one knee to give herself better access to her pussy, moaning louder now as she frantically half-rode the water bottle. Shaving Ad Guy had fly unzipped and his cock straining hard against his boxers. He stroked the bulge vigorously through the material with his free hand. The tip of his cock peeked out of the slit in front, precum dripping from the large glistening head.

It was all she could to do keep herself from getting down on her knees and plunging his cock in her mouth. She might be masturbating in public, but she refused to kneel like that—she was a doctor, for crying out loud! Surely she had some self-worth—

_If I want to, surely it's not "kneeling"?_ the tiny fraction of her brain that was still working at full capacity asked. _It's not obeisance, it's simply the easiest way to access it—_

_If only he were lying down, that would solve everything—_

Shaving Ad Guy solved her problem by splattering the dirty floor with white ejaculate. Molly whimpered at the sight, then grabbed Sherlock's hand and yanked off the glove and swallowed his fingers deep in her mouth.

He jerked his hand away. "Molly, really—"

She snatched the hand back, running her tongue over his beautiful white fingers, pretending it was his inches-away cock, sucking his fingers hard as much-missed feeling rose in her groin, radiating out to her hips and making her cry out in what almost sounded like pain as she climaxed so violently she smacked her head into the window behind her.

Sherlock yanked his hand away, and Molly stayed arched there for a moment, relishing the relaxing post-release satisfaction that flowed through her, then quickly tucked her breasts away and removed the water bottle from her vagina.

_Ding_! went the train loudspeaker, and the doors opened.

Molly jumped up and rushed off the train seconds before the doors whooshed shut.

"That was unusual," said Sherlock. His ghostly pale face was now pink with unaccustomed embarrassment.

"Unusual?" John snapped. "There's something wrong with Molly!"

"What gave that away?" Sherlock gestured at Shaving Ad Guy's phone. "That cannot be allowed to stand. Hand it over, please."

Shaving Ad Guy looked surprised to see the phone I'm his hand. "What?"

"I am going to delete that video you just took of that young lady," Sherlock said, speaking as if to a child.

But John had other ideas. The train had just pulled into the next station, and right before he jumped off he snatched the man's phone from his hand and threw it in front of the train arriving at the opposite platform. It exploded in a jumble of metal and plastic. That took care of that, then!

He caught another train and walked the few blocks to Molly's apartment.

"Go away," said Molly when he rapped on her door.

"I just came to make sure everything was all right—I destroyed the video, by the way-"

"Go _away. Please!_"

"Molly, I'm a doctor, so if there's something wrong—"

Molly flung the door open. Her face was flushed, her eyes almost wild. He had never seen her half as disturbed. "Wrong?" she said. "_Wrong_?"

John was starting to regret having come. Dr. John Watson, the tough British bulldog, army veteran and champion curmudgeon. He had no business trying to comfort women after they'd been through—through—well, he didn't quite have a name for what had happened on the train, but he would have sold his thumbs to have not been present for it.

"May I come in?" he said anyway, because he was already there. He gave that awkward little throat-clearing cough of his. "If something is wrong, you shouldn't be alone."

She let him in. Perhaps she really didn't want to be alone.

Neither of them spoke the rest of the evening. Molly sat at the kitchen table drinking tea and watching _Glee_ with her cat in attempt to distract herself, while John sat researching a medical explanation for the evening's events on his phone. Molly looked prettier than usual, he couldn't help but notice when he glanced up at her periodically. Her cheeks were still flushed, and despite her obvious humiliation she looked more relaxed than he was used to seeing her.

Molly turned in early.

"Thank you for coming by," she said, avoiding eye contact. "I'm fine, really." _Better than fine. And also worse_. But words had never been her strong suit, and she didn't know how to express the odd combination of emotions churning in her chest.

Embarrassment, obviously, and humiliation and mortification and all those other words that popped up when you ran "shame" through a thesaurus, but, she realized in surprise as she slipped her nightgown over head, regret was not one of them. She had needed that orgasm, had needed it for months, and however it had happened she felt stronger and healthier for having had it, and somehow that made all the difference.

And for the first time in what felt like ages she fell asleep right away that night.

* * *

There was a perfectly good pub on the hospital's corner—two pubs, to be precise; this was England, after all—but Sherlock had commandeered the entire outing and was directing them to "his" pub, the one near Baker Street, a few stops past Molly's own stop. This meant catching the underground, which during rush hour was no simple task. The first train was too crowded to get on, but the second came quickly, and Molly was able to get a seat near the door.

Sherlock and John stood nearby, holding the pole. John nudged Sherlock and tilted his head at Molly.

"Tell us about this nurse, Molly," said Sherlock almost briskly. "A bit of a step down, isn't it? You are a doctor, after all, and you still have a few years left before your looks fade entirely."

"I meant for you to apologize!" John snapped.

"It's all right," said Molly, holding her purse in her lap and looking down at her feet. The floor of the train was covered in a day's worth of spilled coffee and sticky gum and abandoned newspapers emblazoned with _"I Couldn't Take it Anymore": Mother of Three Drowns Children In Neighbor's Pool -EXCLUSIVE! _and equally dreadful _Reality Star Admits to Plastic Surgery!_ kind of headlines, and she looked up.

The passengers weren't any more cheerful than the floor. Like a wait in the dentists off, the trip to work was always made in a flash, the trip home seemed to take hours. Businessmen in stiff dark suits leaned against the doors, and women in heels struggled to keep their balance as the train started and stopped.

The man next to Molly was sitting too close to her, his legs spread out in a V. Molly wanted to poke him, or say something, but drank in his spiked green Mohawk, piercings, and tattoos, and decided to just quietly sit there. As she always did, no matter who crowded her.

_Not just on the train._

She wrinkled her nose at the thought. There was nothing wrong with being well-mannered! Nothing at all. And if she got stepped on sometimes—

_Like tonight._

—at least she had her cat.

She almost laughed at that one, but there was now grayish train-gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe and her hip hurt from sitting squished and Sherlock was completely ignoring her and none of it seemed very funny, not really.

Plus the air conditioning was on uncomfortably high, and she could feel her nipples hardening under her thin bra at the cold air. Molly adjusted herself in her seat, trying to sit more comfortably in the limited space between Mohawk Guy and the metal bars on the end of the seat, and the rim of a folder she had in her purse brushed her chest.

She had worn her thin silk bra to make herself feel sexier and more confident on her date, the first in months, but now she half-regretted how thin the material was. She shifted awkwardly, and the hard edge of the folder pushed against her breasts again, rubbing her hard nipples and starting a dull throbbing ache in her crotch.

The zipper of Sherlock's trousers was barely a foot from her face. She had the sudden mad idea to lean forward and take hold of that zipper with her teeth—

_Why don't you?_ came a sudden voice in her head.

It took Molly a moment to realize that it wasn't her mental voice, or the voice of her conscience, or the judgmental voice of her mother that Molly sometimes thought in when she disapproved of what she was doing.

She sat straight up, brushing her nipples again, and looked around.

Nothing. Nobody with an antennae attached to their head, nobody in silvery-blue wizard's robes or holding any kind of science-fiction contraption pointed in her direction.

The businessmen were still standing there holding their briefcases in front of them and trying to look important. The businesswomen were still silently cursing the unfair social conventions that looked vaguely askance at flats. Most people were playing mindless games on their phones, doubtlessly involving colorful shapes that made chirpy noises. The few passengers whose entertainment requirements exceeded those of a second grader were reading honest-to-goodness books.

John was on his phone too, but he seemed to be emailing someone. Sherlock was uncharacteristically quite, his smooth white forehead creased as if he were deep in thought.

_You want to do it, don't you?_

She didn't respond, because that was crazy, but she didn't have to.

_Of course you do, _the voice went on. _But I'll take pity on you, for old time's sake_. _Instead you're going to touch yourself until you come, and before you get to the next stop. You have at least seven minutes. _

And slowly, inexorably, Molly found herself rocking back and forth, her sharp nipples rubbing the folder, intensifying the throbbing in her groin until the ache of blood filling the lips of her labia was almost painful.

John was the first to notice something was wrong. "Uh, Molly—"

She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. "I—I don't—"

"Are you all right?"

She opened her eyes. The man across from her was looking at her too now. He was very good-looking, in a sharp cold clichéd Wall Street kind of way, complete with a striped blue dress shirt with white cuffs and collar, yellow suspenders, and sleek hair parted down the side. He looked exactly like the kind of antiseptic model you would see in a high-end shaving advertisement. He raised his over-groomed eyebrows in surprise as she unbuttoned the front of her dress and reached her hand inside.

"Molly, we are in public," said Sherlock in as close to shock as he could ever get. "Stop that at once!"

But Molly couldn't stop. The same urge that had compelled her to rub herself on her folder was now creating a need so strong that she didn't think twice about fondling her own breasts through the silky material of her bra.

It felt like she had two pebbles in there, her nipples were so hard, and she ran the ridge of her fingernails over them, feeling the engorged little pink pebbles push back against her fingers as she pinched and rubbed and stroked them. After a moment she scooped her breasts out so she could get at them better, the cold air playing delightfully over her bare skin.

"Molly—" John said, coughing nervously.

But Molly barely heard him over the blood rushing through her ears. Her right hand slipped down over her thigh, sliding down to the hem of her dress while her left kept touching her nipples, sending little jolts thrilling through her body.

Shaving Ad Guy was now filming her with his flashy cell phone, but it had been far too long since she'd been touched for her to stop now, camera and Mohawk Man and the other fifty passengers be damned. She could leap in front of an oncoming train as soon as she finished, but at least she'd die satisfied.

The tip of her finger reached her inner thigh, and she gently ran it around the rim of silk panties. It tickled in a good way, and she slid her nail over the slight bulge of her labia and over to the other side, tracing the edges of her panties, shivering a bit with pleasure at the unaccustomed stimulation.

John had averted his eyes out of respect, and Sherlock out of embarrassment, but others beside Shaving Ad Guy were noticing what was happening now. She felt at least a dozen pairs of eyes on her as she ran her finger up and down the damp crotch of her panties, whimpering slightly to herself.

She hesitated for just a moment, torn between the animal lust struggling to tear through her like a hurricane and everything else she knew to be correct and proper, and then the hurricane tore down the fence of her inhibitions and she plunged her fingers down under the band of her panties and found her clit.

Molly moaned aloud at the feel of her fingers on her clit, and after savoring that for a moment she slipped her hand down further, rubbing her fingers between the lips of her labia, wetting them with her thick slippery fluids. Her lubricated fingers moved up again to her clit, tracing the sensitive skin around it, touching it gently, then back down to her labia and up again.

She didn't take her fingers off her clit again. She couldn't. Touching it was like pushing on a button, a powerful little button that fully ignited the burning need that had been building inside of her for over six months, and touching her clit and breasts had become as necessary as breathing.

The thought that Sherlock was watching—even the thought of the other people, and Shaving Ad Guy's camera—made her heart beat even faster. She had never had anything other than straightforward vanilla sex, she be wad definitely starting to understand why other people went in for things a bit kinkier. Her humiliation was only adding to the throbbing in her groin, fueling her desire for something more—

She took her hand off her breasts for a moment to rummage about in her purse. There, her water bottle, the little eight-ounce ones. She had filled it up before she left the hospital, and it was still cool to the touch.

Molly reluctantly removed her hand from her panties so she could fish her chapstick out of the pocket. She worked it so that the entire stick of lip balm rose up, then broke it off and warmed it between her hands and rubbed the softened lip balm over the rounded end of the water bottle.

She slipped her panties down so that they were stretched over her thighs and plunged the water bottle inside herself. It was a tight fit, but she was burning with the need for _something_ inside her, and after she moved it and out and after a few times it slipped in all the way, filling her with a delicious coolness. Molly sucked it in deeper, clenching her inner walls, enjoying the curious feeling for a moment before turning her attention back to the other parts of her that were crying out for attention.

She rubbed her chapstick-covered fingers over her nipples for a moment, returning them to full hardness, then reached for the water bottle and returned her other hand to her clit with a sigh.

John cleared his throat again, as if by doing that she would snap out of it and he would completely disappear, but she ignored him and thrust the water bottle in and out again, faster and faster, as she stroked herself, and rocked back and forth to rub her nipples on her folder. She noticed at least a half-dozen pairs of bulging pants in her audience—not Sherlock's, though John was shifting uncomfortably—and the thought of all those erections around her, _because_ of her, made her feel delightfully filthy.

And that businesswoman in the doorway—she was squirming slightly, holding her leather briefcase so that the edge rubbed discreetly at her crotch. The woman pressed her hips back against the door, then pushed forward again against the briefcase, biting her lip in concentration.

Molly rose onto one knee to give herself better access to her pussy, moaning louder now as she frantically half-rode the water bottle. Shaving Ad Guy had fly unzipped and his cock straining hard against his boxers. He stroked the bulge vigorously through the material with his free hand. The tip of his cock peeked out of the slit in front, precum dripping from the large glistening head.

It was all she could to do keep herself from getting down on her knees and plunging his cock in her mouth. She might be masturbating in public, but she refused to kneel like that—she was a doctor, for crying out loud! Surely she had some self-worth—

_If I want to, surely it's not "kneeling"?_ the tiny fraction of her brain that was still working at full capacity asked. _It's not obeisance, it's simply the easiest way to access it—_

_If only he were lying down, that would solve everything—_

Shaving Ad Guy solved her problem by splattering the dirty floor with white ejaculate. Molly whimpered at the sight, then grabbed Sherlock's hand and yanked off the glove and swallowed his fingers deep in her mouth.

He jerked his hand away. "Molly, really—"

She snatched the hand back, running her tongue over his beautiful white fingers, pretending it was his inches-away cock, sucking his fingers hard as much-missed feeling rose in her groin, radiating out to her hips and making her cry out in what almost sounded like pain as she climaxed so violently she smacked her head into the window behind her.

Sherlock yanked his hand away, and Molly stayed arched there for a moment, relishing the relaxing post-release satisfaction that flowed through her, then quickly tucked her breasts away and removed the water bottle from her vagina.

_Ding_! went the train loudspeaker, and the doors opened.

Molly jumped up and rushed off the train seconds before the doors whooshed shut.

"That was unusual," said Sherlock. His ghostly pale face was now pink with unaccustomed embarrassment.

"Unusual?" John snapped. "There's something wrong with Molly!"

"What gave that away?"

John jumped off the train at the next stop, caught the next one going in the direction of Molly's house, and after a bit of hesitation walked to Molly's flat.

"Go away," said Molly when he rapped on her door.

"I just came to make sure everything was all right—"

"Go _away_!"

"Molly, I'm a doctor, so if there's something wrong—"

Molly flung the door open. Her face was flushed, her eyes almost wild. He had never seen her half as disturbed. "Wrong?" she said. "_Wrong_?"

John was starting to regret having come. Dr. John Watson, the tough British bulldog, army veteran and champion curmudgeon. He had no business trying to comfort women after they'd been through—through—well, he didn't quite have a name for what had happened on the train, but he would have sold his thumbs to have not been present for it.

"May I come in?" he said anyway, because he was already there. He gave that awkward little throat-clearing cough of his. "If something is wrong, you shouldn't be alone."

She let him in. Perhaps she really didn't want to be alone.

Neither of them spoke the rest of the evening. Molly sat at the kitchen table drinking tea and watching _Glee_ with her cat in attempt to distract herself, while John sat researching a medical explanation for the evening's events on his phone. Molly looked prettier than usual, he couldn't help but notice when he glanced up at her periodically. Her cheeks were still flushed, and despite her obvious humiliation she looked more relaxed than he was used to seeing her.

Molly turned in early.

"Thank you for coming by," she said, avoiding eye contact. "I'm fine, really." _Better than fine. And also worse_. But words had never been her strong suit, and she didn't know how to express the odd combination of emotions churning in her chest.

Embarrassment, obviously, and humiliation and mortification and all those other words that popped up when you ran "shame" through a thesaurus, but, she realized in surprise as she slipped her nightgown over head, regret was not one of them. She had needed that orgasm, had needed it for months, and however it had happened she felt stronger and healthier for having had it, and somehow that made all the difference.

And for the first time in what felt like ages she fell asleep right away that night.

* * *

**I chose Glee, not a show I'm a fan of, because she mentions it in her online blog. If you like the show, then that's something else you have in common with our Dr. Hooper besides an unhealthy attraction to Mr. Holmes.**


	3. The Amazing Multifunctional Umbrella

_**Mycroft's umbrella gets a thorough workout.**_

**Needless to say, I don't recommend trying the umbrella thing. There's no reason it wouldn't work, but you never know, and I have no desire to be responsible for anyone's very embarrassing hospital room visit, at least not without getting a first-hand account of the EMT's reaction ; )** **This can probably use a healthy dose of Brit-picking, but I did my best.**

* * *

Sherlock and John avoided Molly's lab for a full week after what she had mentally come to think of as the Train Incident of Eternal Infamy.

The more she thought about it the less she knew what to make of it.

She never did that sort of thing alone in bed at night, not under the covers with the lights out and the front door locked, so why had she suddenly done it on a train? In front of dozens of people, no less?

_In front of _Sherlock_? _

"Mortification" did not cover a tenth of what she felt when she thought of how she had sucked on his fingers. What had she been thinking! Or rather_, not_ thinking.

_No, you were thinking, all right, but not with your brain—not the one in your head, at any rate._

Molly wondered how Sherlock had felt when her tongue slid over his fingertips, at the suction as she desperately closed her lips around his middle knuckles. Had he felt anything? Was he even capable of feeling anything? She wasn't sure whether to hope he had or be thankful that he probably hadn't. She wasn't sure asexuality was a real thing, but if it was, Sherlock would surely be its poster child.

And John—

That was almost worse than Sherlock. John had actual identifiable feelings, a more normal way of interacting and viewing the world. Even if Sherlock Holmes could somehow take things in stride and move past this, John Watson could not. His behavior after the trip clearly said that. How caring and uncharacteristically gentle he had been, as if Molly were a sick patient of his!

Sherlock and John finally dropped by the next Monday, but only because they had a case. She was glad to see that Sherlock's brother Mycroft was with them. Mycroft was echt English, complete with umbrella and waistcoat, and his presence meant that things could not devolve into the discussion of embarrassing personal matters such as "Creative use of a water bottle, Molly." She doubted either of them would stoop _that_ low, but Sherlock was bound to say _something_. He always did.

"Double homicide," said Sherlock briskly, as if nothing had happened. Yes, thank heaven Mycroft was there. She wondered if Sherlock had brought him on purpose, if he cared enough to try to prevent her discomfiture.

"Homicides?" Molly said, flipping through her clipboard, as if she didn't know the corpses he was referring to. "Yes, the two men pulled from Thames. I—I checked their tongues, there were—"

"I'll look," Sherlock cut her off. He took her clipboard, checked the numbers, and headed to the freezers on his own. Mycroft ducked his head politely at Molly, wearing that perpetual politely supercilious smile of his, and followed his brother.

Molly looked up, caught John's eye by mistake, and looked away, wishing her lab assistant would return from his coffee break already. She strongly suspected he was taking a nap in storage closet somewhere. She didn't blame him. The lab had not been terribly exciting of late.

John coughed and turned to fiddle with a very expensive microscope on the counter. His coughed into his hand, face pink. She had never given it much thought, but she wouldn't have thought he was the blushing type.

Molly glanced away before he could look up and meet her eye by mistake and spotted Mycroft's umbrella leaning on one of the stools. It was long and black and sleek, a nice sturdy umbrella, not one of those flimsy, colorful little pocket umbrellas that turned inside-out with the slightest gust of wind. It had a thick, glossy cherry wood handle that curved up like a come-hither finger, beckoning her like a living thing.

Molly's heart sped up suddenly, and just as suddenly the thought of Sherlock's fingers in her mouth flashed through her mind and sent sparks tingling through her groin.

Without actually thinking about what she was doing Molly walked quickly past the stool, snatched up the umbrella, and locked herself in the unisex loo off the lab.

She stood there for a moment, looking down at the umbrella, then took a squirt of hand sanitizer from the dispenser on the wall and smeared it over the umbrella handle, acting more on instinct than anything else. She was a doctor, after all, and that umbrella went everywhere with Mycroft. No sense in contracting some nasty infection she would have difficulty explaining to her doctor, who was unable to so much as meet Molly's eye while prescribing birth control.

Sherlock and Mycroft's voices came through the thin wall separating the bathroom from the freezers, courtesy of cut-rate construction during the hospital's remodel. _Probably union labor_, whispered the sensible, conservative part of her brain.

"The letters E and M, carved into the tongues," Mycroft was saying. "Any ideas?"

"Are you honestly asking me for advice, Mycroft?" Sherlock responded.

"Just trying to be polite, brother dear."

Molly looked down at the umbrella, feeling guilty. Surely there was something else she could use that didn't belong to a high-ranking member of the government.

But it curved so perfectly—and the pulsing ache between her legs was no longer something that could be ignored—

_Yes it could be ignored! _came that odd voice in her head, that old disapproving one that sounded like her mother._ And you have the strength to turn around and replace Mycroft's umbrella instead of staying here and indulging in the most vile, base behavior you could possibly lower yourself to do._

_But you won't._

Somehow the knowledge that she _could_ stop this if she _wanted_ to—an idea placed there by the voice and validated by a lifetime of abstinence—made Molly's lust flare up someone had taken a match to a gas station.

This was her choice, her dirty little choice, and she relished it.

She stripped off her lab coat and trousers, dumped them on the waist-high projection of the wall that housed the heating and cooling systems, and seated herself beside it on the ledge.

There was a mirror across from her, so she could watch herself unbutton her dull purply-gray blouse (nearly the exact same flower pattern, Sherlock had once told her, as the slipcovers on his grandmother's sofa) and pull her bra up over her breasts. She coated her fingers with saliva and began to rub her nipples, the throbbing ache in her groin growing stronger and stronger as she felt them harden beneath the slippery, sensitive skin of her fingers.

She reached down into her panties, lubricated the fingers of her other hand with the liquid that had already started to form a shiny wet patch in her white cotton panties, and began to stroke the lips of labia, stopping every few moments to thrust her fingers inside her. Her fingernail scraped against her inside walls, and she knew that was not a good thing but she couldn't help but enjoy the friction.

Sherlock's voice came through the wall again.

"…all government agents," he was saying "…but there _must_ be another link…"

His deep voice was like dark leather and fireplaces and wine and roses and chocolate made audible. His rich tones drove the frantic pace of her strokes, and she closed her eyes and imagined him there beside her, that it was his tongue lapping at her nipples, his long white fingers digging inside her—

Inside her. His cock, _inside_ her, her legs curling around him, yanking him down, taking him for her very own, the first woman to _have_ him—

No longer able to wait, Molly jumped off the ledge, yanked her panties off, grabbed the umbrella, and slipped it inside of her. She was so wet it slid in easily, and she moaned appreciatively at how, while it wasn't nearly as thick as she imagined Sherlock being, the curve of the handle gave it the illusion of girth by pressing against the lower rim of her vagina and arching up inside her.

"…perhaps the letters I-M-E are an acronym…"

Molly bunched her trousers and lab coat up to and leaned forward with her chin on the clothes and her bare bottom facing the mirror. Her fingers found her clit and her other hand grasped the furled part of the umbrella and began working it as if her life depended upon her jerking the instrument up and down and back and forth like it was stuck inside her and she was trying to get it out.

_Or, _a tiny, even less sexy part of her brain said_, like I'm snaking a drain. _

Her nipples brushed the hard edge of the ledge as she gave a particularly hard jerk, and she gasped and leaned back to let them brush the edge again, then even further forward so they ran pleasurably over the hard heating grate set in the ledge. Her knees were pressed hard against the wall, and she could feel them trembling with the effort it took to keep upright.

"I-M-E," Sherlock repeated. " 'I'm,' perhaps? A smaller part of a greater phrase, with the E belonging to another word."

The curved umbrella handle didn't give her the same feeling of fullness as last week's water bottle, but it was hitting all the right places inside her, places nothing else had ever touched. Touching her clit felt good, but this was something deeper, something more, as if all her other sexual experiences had only been seventy percent of what they could have been, as if it were touching upon a part of her even she hadn't known existed; be it the elusive G-spot that she had never felt confident enough leading her lovers to, or something entirely different.

Whatever it was, Molly was nearly climbing over the ledge in a frenzied attempt to shove the umbrella deeper inside her, feeling the cold metal ring above the umbrella handle against her clit as she gasped and cried out and moaned. Something was building inside of her, something deeper and stronger and different than a mere clitoral orgasm, different even than one from a combination of a clit and the ordinary thrusting of an ordinary penis.

"An abbreviation, perhaps, or a code…" said Sherlock, and at the sound of his beautiful chocolate voice Molly came with a strangled cry, her vaginal walls clamping down on the umbrella handle and squirting hot cum over her hand and spattering it onto the tile floor like an obscene rainfall.

She gave a shocked little gasp and sank to the floor with her back to the wall and the umbrella still inside her. In the mirror she bizarrely looked like she had enormous black _thing_ coming out of her. If it had been flesh-toned it would have looked like a massive, unusually-shaped, uncomfortably erect penis.

Molly gave a little disgusted laugh at the thought and removed it. She sat there for a while, letting her breathing calm down, watching the pink fade from her face in the mirror. And as she sat there a new sensation started to worm its way up from somewhere that—

She rose quickly to her feet. The blood still pumping through her nethers, combined with the way she had been sitting, with her knees spread, the cold tiles against the exposed spot between her bare bum cheeks—

No. That was one thing she was not doing! That was filthy, and animalistic, and completely wrong! She wrinkled her nose at the thought of it, willing way the slight throbbing tingle back there. Only a pervert would even suggest that! There was a _reason_ she had broken up with her college boyfriend. That and his insistence on calling her "baby." And his habit of microwaving fish in her dorm room.

Molly dressed quickly, legs still trembling a bit. The horrible new spot still tickled her slightly, like an obscene little reminder of what she had done, but she felt better.

She was not giving into her newfound curiosity, she was herself again, she was stronger than whatever this strange compulsion was that had taken control of her.

Yes.

Or rather, yes, with some reservations.

_Who are you fooling? Look in the mirror! You never even let yourself _think_ of it in the past and yet you just masturbated, right here in the morgue loo, with Sherlock right on the other side of the wall and a freezer full of corpses outside the door! _

The thought sent a spark shooting her crotch, and she pressed on it almost strongly and angrily, willing it to go away through pain.

_Well, I may have given in twice, but this is the last time I'll do it, _Molly told herself_. Ever._ She'd either find herself a boyfriend or go without sex, that was it. She was a doctor, not an animal, dammit!

_Sounds like something Dr. McCoy would say_, she thought to herself, and the thought made her smile and chased away the last flutters of desire. Any thought of _Star Trek_ reminded her of her lab assistant, a scrawny, pimply boy with a nose like a manatee and breath she always suspected could bring their frozen corpses back to life.

She was zipping up her trousers when there was a rap on the door. "Dr. Hooper?"

Her boss. Oh, hell.

Molly tucked her shirt in so fast she nearly dislocated her wrist. She flung the door open. "Dr. Noran—"

"Dr. Ryan-Noran."

"Ur, Dr. Ryan-Noran." Right. She had been at St. Bart's for years. She knew that! Her brain was still not quite working properly. She just wanted to curl up in bed and enjoy a nice warm, lazy afterglow. "The lab was left unattended," Dr. Ryan-Noran continued. Going by her tone of voice one would think they kept nuclear codes in the morgue freezes.

"I'm sorry, I had to—use the ladies'."

"I can see that." Dr. Ryan-Noran's eyes fell on the umbrella. Her eyebrows didn't move, somehow making things so much worse.

"I was just…" Molly bit her lip. "I was—cleaning it. Yes, cleaning it. Some…formaldehyde dripped on it." Partially true, anyway. She had wiped the handle off, and that counted as cleaning, right? It was still sticky, and smelled sweet. Smelled like Molly.

"I see." Dr. Ryan-Noran gestured at Molly. "I'd like to see you in your office, please. At once."

Sherlock and company had left. Molly wasn't sure if she was relieved or not. Despite everything she couldn't help but miss John and Sherlock after their absence this week. But perhaps it was better to continue to keep a bit of distance until all this—whatever this was—blew over.

_If it ever will. How would I be reacting if Sherlock had yanked his cock and suddenly started wanking on the train? _

Molly barely heard Dr. Ryan-Noran's lecture about leaving the lab unattended with unauthorized people roaming about. Sherlock wanking on the train…that was a nice thought, she'd tuck that away for later—

_No, there will be no later; you're not doing this again, remember? And if Sherlock returns without Mycroft you have to look him in the eye and act like nothing happened! Or talk about it. You have to move past this sometime or confront the problem head-on. _

But moving past things was not her forte. Nor was confronting things, head-on or otherwise.

Molly rather regretted taking the umbrella home with her that night to give it a thorough cleaning. She had sat with it on the bus, giving the handle an occasional sniff that made her feel like a dog, but she told herself that she was testing herself as to whether or not she would start screwing herself on the train again. She had passed the test, but now it sat propped up against the couch, long and sleek and voluptuously black and _beckoning_ her again—

She fed her cat, fixed dinner, showered, washed the dishes, vacuumed the floor, and even cleaned the loo, but the Amazing Multifunctional Umbrella was still there, _watching_ her.

She got up and put it in the closet.

* * *

Moriarity had not yet watched the video taken the week before. He did not need to see poor Dr. Hooper writhing about on the train. He was not after the perverse sexual thrills of this little game.

That could wait.

For now it was enough that John and Sherlock and Molly clearly believed that the video had been destroyed. They thought the man had been acting alone; they would not suspect that Moriarity was so much as still alive, let alone enchanting investment bankers and giving them phones capable of uploading video even while underground.

Still, it would only be a matter of time until Sherlock Holmes began putting the pieces together. It was a wonder it was taking him so long. Disappointing, really, although the consulting detective _had_ watched him shoot himself in the head only inches away.

He smiled to himself and watched as his agent carved a **D** into his latest victim's tongue.

* * *

**Notes**: **I haven't the slightest idea if women have what can technically be termed "groins" (as opposed to "crotches") but I've decided to just lean into my use of it.**


	4. Molly, In the Bedroom, With the Umbrella

**In which Mycroft's umbrella experiences first-hand the meaning of the euphemism "unspeakable acts." ** **Or: In which Mycroft's umbrella loses its final shred of dignity.** **Doubling down on the do-not-try this at home theme.**

* * *

The umbrella remained safely in the closet for the next three days. Molly should have returned it already, she knew that, but she had waited too long. A herniated turtle with a broken leg could have walked it over by now. If she returned now she'd have to explain why he hadn't dropped it off at Baker Street, and she didn't think she could come up with a convincing explanation that didn't involve it having been inside her.

Besides, she didn't want to see John or Sherlock. Perhaps if she left it with Mrs. Hudson—?

Her lab assistant showed up on Tuesday wearing a Han Shot First T-shirt, something Molly normally would have ignored, but today she welcomed the opportunity to lecture him about the dress code and what Dr. Ryan-Noran would say. That diverted her for about ten minutes. Having a 300-stone man's overripe spleen explode diverted her for an additional thirty.

But as she changed lab coats and scratched at the front of her blouse, wondering if the dried brownish stain on her shirt had already been there or was something that called for a Hazmat team.

_Stop with the scratching! Too close to the nipple._

Though she was only checking to see if the shirt was safe to wear home—

_No you're not._

She bit her knuckle hard enough to leave little white dents and went to teach her assistant the proper way to wipe up spleen juice.

Tabloids were Molly's guilty pleasure (though she was still embarrassed to read them on the train home), but on Wednesday she read four of them from flimsy cover to flimsy cover and even took the three-page quiz, "Which Species of Tree Are You?" She lay in bed, finishing the last article, a needlessly in-depth story about the "hot new Mongolian nomad crash diet taking Hollywood by storm," then tossed it aside. 11:30 pm. Time to go to sleep, or get up and find a decent book. But the book was all the way on her dresser, and she felt to lazy to get out of bed.

She felt around in her nightstand drawer. Ah. _The Physician's Handbook_. What was that even doing in there?

She lay on her back and propped it up on her chest, trying to immerse herself in a decidedly unsexy chapter on fungal infections (complete with glossy, full-color photos) but all she managed to do was brush her nipples as she turned the pages…but that couldn't be avoided, not if she wanted to read lying on her back. She could lie on her side, of course, but that might hurt her neck, and she wouldn't want _that_. Her job relied too much on stooping over corpses and microscopes to risk it.

Molly read another few pages, brushing herself gently, then swallowed hard and gave in and turned over on her side. A mistake, as it turned out. She was rather flat-chested, but lying on her side could feel the weight of her breasts, see their curves through the material of her fuzzy yellow pajamas, her sensitive parts brushing the material as she shifted.

Well, she would just ignore it and brush up on jock itch. Jock itch was good. Nothing like a good photo of jock itch to make men seem repulsive. Or maybe she should move on to the STD chapter, really bring it home…

No. Thinking about sex in even that context was a mistake. Her hand drifted down over her chest, running her hand over her thighs, between them. That was fine. That was just caressing. Massage, really. Massage was fine. Fine…

Her pajama bottoms slipped a bit as she shifted, her fingertip grazing the skin over the waistband. Her heart was starting to beat faster now in anticipation, the knowledge that she wouldn't actually do anything making her toes curl in frustration.

Molly flipped over on her stomach, half-grinding into the mattress, her breasts almost painfully mashed down. Too bad that she welcomed any stimulation at this point. She reached around to straighten her twisted pajamas and found her hand drifting over the rather small swells of her rear.

She thought of sitting on the floor of the laboratory bathroom and her fingers ran themselves down the seam of her pajama bottoms, stroking the cleft, up and down, a curiously pleasant, fluttering, almost tickly sensation—

She snatched hand away, but the cleft kept tingling.

* * *

On Thursday another strange body showed up at the morgue, this one with a Y on the tongue. It had showed up six blocks away, propped up in a bus terminal. It was a bit odd, how the bodies had all been found close enough to St. Bart's to be brought there and not another morgue.

Sherlock was there, alone this time, but Molly's lab assistant was there as well, so things weren't as awkward as they should have been. Meaning Molly wanted to melt into the floor, but she forewent sneaking out the window.

"I have your brother's umbrella," she said as Sherlock slid his long pale fingers in the corpse's mouth and inspected the tongue.

"Keep it."

"Do you have any theories?" she asked him timidly as he slammed the freezer drawer shut. "I mean, ideas!" she said when she saw his reaction to the word "theory." "Or rather—I suppose you already know who…never mind." Why had she opened her mouth?

"This is all highly unusual," said Sherlock.

There was an awkward pause. Perhaps he hadn't solved the case yet. If he had he would go on for hours about his own cleverness, or at least be slightly more friendly, at least to her. Unless this was one of those maddening times when he insisted on keeping everyone around him in the dark, to make the big reveal more dramatic. In which case he'd wait till John and Lestrade were there, possibly even Mycroft.

But her gut was telling her that he was genuinely puzzled, that there was something very wrong, something that worried even Sherlock.

And only one thing had ever worried Sherlock.

But it couldn't be. He was dead.

Normally being so close to Sherlock would not have helped what she had come to think of as her "umbrella situation" but his obvious concern over whatever it was gave her something else to think about for the rest of the day.

YDIMEDMI

Too many letters for an acronym, even for a supervillain organization in a comic book. It had to be spelling something.

DIME MID (Y)

DIE DIM (Y M M)

MIME DID (Y)

Perhaps she was missing something. At least she was in distinguished company.

But the odd tug towards the umbrella in the closet started up as soon as she arrived home. She intentionally fell asleep in front of the TV, still wearing her work clothes, cat on her lap, WW2 documentaries playing on the TV.

Friday produced another dead body, this one with a U on the tongue. Both Sherlock and John showed up for that one, but so did Lestrade and Mycroft, so that was as close to at ease as she was going to get. She half-expected Mycroft to ask about his umbrella, but he didn't seem to notice she was even there.

* * *

On Saturday she finally came up with a solution to the umbrella situation: she'd explain that the umbrella had gotten broken and that she'd had to buy another. He hadn't time to go shopping until now and she was very sorry.

_And that way I'd get to keep the old one_, she thought, but quickly chased the thought from her mind.

Really, the entire thing was just an excuse to get out of her flat, out amongst people, where she could think about other things, and even if her new favorite subject did seize hold of her brain, she'd be out among people.

_That didn't stop you before._

She chased that thought away too.

She took the umbrella with her, to make sure the new one was exactly the same make and model, and rode the bus to Harrod's—only the best for Mr. Mycroft Holmes—and spent a half hour just wandering through the store. She didn't often shop at Harrod's. She wandered through the jewelry department and rather fancied she was given the fish eye by the salespeople, the same look she got when she went into fancy restaurants (well, that one time she had gone to a fancy restaurant).

The sea of makeup counters caught her eye. Not normally she something she went in for—if she wanted to experiment that was something she'd do in the privacy of her own home with drugstore makeup—but she was feeling a bit self-conscious after the jewelry department and she had come out to distract herself, after all. Two minutes later she was seated at the Mac counter being painted by a man who her grandmother, not a woman to mince words, would have called "tarted up."

Very obviously gay, even to Molly, whose gaydar was about as good as her taste in men. And yet, as the eye shadow brush glided over the sensitive patch of skin on the inside corner of her eyes she felt something stirring in her knickers.

Oh, goddamn it, since when had she been attracted to men with thick black eyeliner? Gay men with thick black eyeliner?

She sat there, unsure of what to do, struggling not to enjoy the gentle tickling sensation, then grabbed her purse and ran off with half a face made up.

She was halfway out of the store when she remembered that she hadn't bought the umbrella yet. First stop, though, was the ladies' room to wipe the goop off her face.

"Molly?" came a voice behind her as she patted her face dry. "Molly Hooper? It's me, Lucy! Lucy Jeffries."

Molly turned around. A plump red-haired woman stood beaming at her with what seemed like an inhuman amount of teeth. Lucy Jeffries, her old college roommate, queen of leaving wet towels on other people's beds and then being so sincerely sorry it was impossible to be angry about it. On occasion she had branched out to using Molly's hairbrush. Molly had spent many a night picking long red hairs out of her brush and half-wishing they were hers. Lucy's hair was her best feature.

"How long has it been? Too long! You really need to be more active on social media. The pictures of your cat are adorable, of course, but not a word about how you're doing—"

Ten minutes later Molly found herself sitting with Lucy at a sidewalk café. An hour later Molly was on her way to Lucy's sister's house for a little "get together."

A party, Molly realized too late to back out. But that was good. Today was a day for taking herself out of her element.

She sat in the corner by herself, nursing a Coke. No alcohol, not even beer. Who knew it might do to her in her current state. She almost wished she was home dealing with the glowing umbrella closet. The music was too loud, the people too rowdy, and there was a mini strobe light machine that was giving her headache.

Molly never understood parties. She didn't like talking to strangers normally, and throw in drunkenness and awful blaring music and really, why bother when you could stay home with a good book and warm cat and a glass of something that wasn't pumped out of a keg?

She found her thoughts drifting back to the umbrella, propped up against Lucy's sister's bed with the coats. Any aspiring umbrella thief could just stroll right in and take it. A fancy umbrella like that—shiny black, thick strong metal frame, hand-carved cherry wood handle…an umbrella fit for the Queen. Knowing Mycroft, it very may as well have been a gift from Her Majesty. And to lose something like that…

Best she go check on it.

It was right where she had left it, leaning against the nightstand on the other side of the bread. On the nightstand sat a shepherdess-shaped lamp, a stack of books, a phone charger, and…

A little tub of Vaseline. With coconut butter. And a nice red lid. And enough missing from the inside that the if she took a bit nobody would notice.

Molly could feel herself growing wet.

She snapped the lid shut.

Then opened it again.

It was almost painful, the pulsing in her groin. To head back out into a party feeling like this was irresponsible. Her judgment was as impaired as a drunken teenager's. She might just grab the nearest man and shove her tongue down his throat—

She closed her eyes at the image, submitting Sherlock for the anonymous party-goer, and her hand slipped down the front of her trousers.

So much for keeping her fingers out of the Vaseline. They were buried inside her to the knuckle, thoroughly coating themselves in her slippery juices before sliding gently back out to stroke her clit.

_Damn it!_

_Well, it's late to stop now…_

_No it isn't,_ said a different voice, but she sat down heavily on the bed, eyes squeezed shut, suddenly flushed with heat, furiously rubbing at herself as if she were trying to get a stain out of her pussy.

No, even that wasn't enough. She needed something _inside_ her.

She tried to stick her fingers inside herself again but then she couldn't get to her clit, not full clothed like this. Besides, they weren't anywhere near thick enough. And she didn't really want them there.

_What the hell. Just do it, get it out of your system. And who cares if you'd scorn that logic if anyone else used it? Nobody's getting hurt, nothing except what's left of your pride…_

She eased her trousers down, scooped out a hearty dollop of Vaseline, smoothed it over the umbrella handle, and gently eased it in between her arse cheeks.

It was an odd sensation, having something back there, but not unpleasant. She turned the umbrella so that it face outward and she could get a firm grip on the long furled black part, the hooked handle facing forward inside her. With one hand on the umbrella and the other stroking her clit she started to move the umbrella inside her slowly.

Oh. _Oh_.

How people fit anything larger in there was a complete mystery to her, but the umbrella handle was just the right thickness and angle and hit the sweet spot almost immediately. She could feel a thin slippery band of muscle separating it from the handle but that only encouraged her to tug the umbrella even harder, the cold metal band at the base tickling the rim of her hole, adding a whole other layer to the sensation. She unbuttoned her blouse and pulled up her bra to let her breasts hang out and brush the bed, the nipple stimulation almost pushing her over the edge.

She gripped the umbrella even harder, her legs starting to shake and her breath coming in heavy gasps. She was almost there, everything in side her throbbing in time to the pounding music coming through the wall, she just had to keep hitting that wonderful spot deep inside her with Mycroft's umbrella—

Molly moaned at the thought of politely handing him his umbrella back without him knowing where it had been, and just she clamped down tight on the handle she heard the doorknob turned.

She had forgotten to lock the door.

With a swiftness born solely of panicked animal reflexes she dropped down on all fours beside the bed and held her breath.

"I don't know about this," said a man's voice.

"Oh, come on," said a woman with a giggle. "There's nobody here."

_Nobody here but us chickens,_ thought Molly. _Or perverts, as the case may be_. She suddenly realized she was still moving the umbrella, the fingers on her other hand still flicking up and down.

Oh, hell, she was going to—to—

The bed creaked as the couple sat down, the sloppy sound of their kissing clearly audible under the music, and Molly came, hard, her walls pulsating around the umbrella handle buried deep inside her, struggling to bite back her cries as wave after wave of pleasure burst through her and left her weak.

"Is there a dog in here?" asked the woman. "Pete, take a look—"

Molly squeezed her eyes shut.

But then the door opened.

_So guardian angels _do_ exist._

"There you two are!" said Lucy. Silence. "Really, Pete? In my sister's bed? Get up, you two! You're both plastered. That's it. Get back to the party. You ought out be ashamed of yourselves!"

The door closed.

Heart racing, Molly carefully slid the umbrella out—a very peculiar sensation not quite good or quite bad—and yanked her trousers up and stuffed her breasts back into her clothes.

Dammit. Dammit. _Dammit_!

She locked herself in the bathroom off the bedroom and spent the next ten minute scrubbing at the umbrella with every form of disinfectant she could find under the sink. Lysol, alcohol, Clorox, and some kind of blue liquid spray that made her choke.

Clean enough to eat off of, if you were so inclined to eat off of umbrellas, but no way was it going back to Mycroft now.

_Though if he keeps up ignoring me I just might_, she thought to herself, and that idea made her smile despite everything.

_Despite what? You feel better, don't you? Better than you've felt all week. And all's well that ends well._

_Well, my "end" might not be "well" for a while._

"That's a terrible joke," she said aloud. She looked in the mirror. Her cheeks were still flushed pink, and there was a twinkle in her eye that hadn't been there in a very long time.

_This is a step up_, she thought as she washed her hands. _At least there were no witnesses this time!_

"And with that I set the bar to an all-time low," she sighed, and returned to the party.

* * *

Moriarity brushed the chalk from his hands and lit the fat black candles, one on every point of the pentagram. He set the paper down in the center and snapped a picture with his cell phone, then sprinkled the herbs over the paper and set it on fire.

He looked at the picture with satisfaction, the flames flickering over his dead-eyed smile.

About time the boys got in on the fun.

* * *

**Well. That took a long time to get up. I've learned my lesson: from now on, I only post *completed* fics. **

**I have written three other fics in the interim, but I think I'm only going to post the Star Wars ones. The other is a kinky Dottie/Peggy (Agent Carter) one complete with bloody, knives, and guns. But I just feel weird sexualizing women that way, which is weird because three of my published works have women in the middle of them. If I knew it was women reading them I guess I wouldn't care so much, which probably make no logical sense. At least it was loads of fun to write!**


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